


In the Game

by Jantique



Category: Highlander: The Series, The Sentinel
Genre: Angst, Betrayal, Blair thinks he can do it all--He can't, Immortals, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-17
Updated: 2015-12-17
Packaged: 2018-05-07 06:49:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5447123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jantique/pseuds/Jantique
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blair Sandburg was juggling as fast as he could. His dissertation, his Immortal, his Sentinel. All one and the same, but with conflicting loyalties to each cause. But the point was, no one else knew anything, and--being Sandburg--he figured he could keep all the balls up in the air. And he did, for nearly four years, until the day they all came crashing down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Game

**Author's Note:**

> Sentinel-centric. Blair provides a basic explanation of Immortals, which is really all that Jim--and the reader--needs to know.

           _And be these juggling fiends no more believ'd,_

_That palter with us in a double sense:_

_That keep the word of promise to our ear_

_And break it to our hope._

“MacBeth”, Act V, scene 8, William Shakespeare

Juggling = deceitful      Palter = to trifle (deal dishonestly)

  

Blair Sandburg was juggling as fast as he could. His dissertation, his Immortal, his Sentinel. All one and the same, but with conflicting loyalties to each cause. As far as Rainier University was concerned, he wasn't supposed to become personally involved with his dissertation subject, let alone live with him. As far as the Watchers were concerned, he wasn't supposed to become emotionally involved with his assigned Immortal--though at least he hadn't told Jim anything yet. Which led to his job as Shaman, which was to Guide his Sentinel, to teach him what he needed to know. And he _hadn't_ told Jim anything yet. Things which might save Jim's life, while ending any chance at a normal one. As a friend, he'd resisted the temptation--hell, the invitation!--to become physically involved. Jim was gorgeous, Jim was available, Jim--would never forgive him for withholding the truth. (Even though Blair saw it as only a minor obfuscation, not-really-lying). The betrayal of his friend was bad enough--he wouldn't do it to his lover.

But the point was, no one else knew anything, and--being Sandburg--he figured he could keep all the balls up in the air. And he did, for nearly four years, until the day they all came crashing down.

 

It was an ordinary day, with peanuts in the park. Blair met Jim for a late lunch and they got a couple of sandwiches to go. It was too beautiful a May afternoon to waste indoors, so they sat on a bench looking out at the river. Blair threw a few peanuts to the gulls who swooped overhead. It was nice to feed someone who appreciated it, and the gulls were very appreciative. Blair was about to point this out to his occasionally under-appreciative roommate when Ellison frowned and shook his head.

"Jim? You hear something?"

"No-yeah, it's ... 1 don't know, like a humming or hissing in my head, or--" He couldn't describe it, but he could feel it, so he wrinkled his brow and shook his head again, as though to shake loose whatever it was.

Suddenly, a woman with short black hair and a long red trench coat strode up to them. She stared at them both critically for a moment, then decidedly turned to Jim and announced, "Maribeth Clancy."

The hissing inside his head was much stronger. He replied curtly, "Detective Jim Ellison," then belatedly added, "Can I help you?"

She smiled coldly. "Certainly. You can give me your Quickening. Or," she looked him over dismissively, "I suppose I can just take it."

Sandburg stopped breathing. He had never been in a situation that called more for expletives. Never had they seemed so inadequate. He blurted, "No! You can't--he doesn't know-- _he's not in the Game_!"

She shrugged. "Too bad." She looked around. "Doesn't look like Holy Ground to me." Her right hand reached under her raincoat.

Ellison didn't know what was going on here, but he recognized the sight of someone reaching for a concealed weapon when he saw it. He pulled out his gun. "Hold still, Ms. Clancy. Don't make any sudden moves."

She laughed. Her hand stayed under her coat.

Sandburg jumped to his feet. "No! Jim, put the gun away; it's okay. Look, Ms. Clancy, um, there are people around here. He'll meet you later, someplace private."

She looked casually around. There were other people in the park, no one close by, but a Quickening would attract attention. "Very well. Where and when?"

To the detective, this sounded like one of the dumbest ideas he'd heard in a long time. But he kept his mouth shut. He didn't know what was going on, and Sandburg obviously did.

"Oh, man!" Sandburg moaned. "Tonight, after dark. Uh, under the old railway bridge." He pointed toward the rusting structure, not currently on the city tour.

The woman looked at Ellison and raised an elegant eyebrow. Her question was clear, _’Does he speak for you_?’ Blair put his hand on Jim's arm, and silently urged his partner to go along. He didn't know who this woman was--not under this name, anyway--there wasn't anyone else really close, and for all he knew, she was perfectly capable of beheading them both, here and now. True, Jim had his gun, but he wouldn't shoot to kill, the only thing that might temporarily stop her.

Jim looked into his Guide's eyes. This wasn't the puppy-dog, "please let me have it" look. This was pleading need and desperation-and fear. He'd seen it before. He thought of Lash, and nodded decisively. "Tonight at eight, under the railway bridge."

Blair let out a breath he didn't know he was holding.

"Fine." She spun on her imported Italian heel and strode away, throwing over her shoulder, "Oh, and lose the mortal."

’ ** _What_**?!’ Ellison turned toward his partner, prepared to hear some GOOD explanations.

But Sandburg had already grabbed his arm and was pulling Jim to his feet. "Come on, Jim, let's go!"

"Sandburg, what the hel- Where are we going?"

"Home! I left my laptop in the loft. I have to look up some stuff." Blair did a frantic dance around the Sentinel, urging him to hurry.

"Look, Chief, I have to work this aftern-"

"No, no, you don't." They reached the truck. Blair couldn't climb in fast enough. "Call Simon and tell him you need to take the afternoon off. Say it's an emergency. Shit, Jim, tell him it's life and death-'cause it is."

Jim glanced sideways. Sandburg was prone to exaggeration, but he looked stone-cold sober about this. Ellison asked, "Whose life or death?"

"Yours." Damn, no, wrong answer. Jim wouldn't be afraid for himself. "Mine, too, probably. Definitely, if she kills you, she won't want any mort--witnesses."

Jim was trying to work this through, even as he automatically steered toward the loft.

The humming in his head had stopped, but he still had a headache. "Okay now, Chief, work with me here. A) why does she want to kill me? B) if she does, why did we let her go? And C) why don't I just call this in right now?"

_Oh, shit! A) I can't tell you, B) because she would have killed you, and C) I can't tell you._

"Jim, can we please get back home first? I can't talk here." That was good, it didn't commit him to anything. Watchers were sworn not to talk, not to get involved with their assignments. Although he didn't think they killed you for telling, anymore. And the whole "not getting involved" part was pretty much out the window. Moving into the loft--well, it had seemed like a good idea at the time.

When they arrived, Blair bolted upstairs, slammed into the apartment, plugged in his laptop and logged onto the Watcher files. Jim watched him with a bemused look.

"Uh, Chief?"

Not looking up, Blair explained, "I'm trying to find out who she is. The Imm--the woman who challenged you."

Puzzled, the detective asked, "Police files?"

"No ... somewhere else. This is ... more complete. She probably doesn't have a police record." Then he did look up. "Jim, call Simon, please."

"She's trying to kill me--us, but I'm not supposed to arrest her."

Blair sighed unhappily. "Jim, you won't have the chance. She'll behead you before you can slap the cuffs on her."

"Behead?"

"Oh, yeah."

This was definitely becoming surreal. The infamous Sandburg Zone. But Sandburg usually knew what he was doing when things got that way. What the hell, he could tell Simon he'd overheard a potentially criminal conversation, and was hot on the trail.

Simon Banks was not a happy captain, but he agreed to let his best detective follow his "lead".

By the time Ellison got off the phone, Sandburg had tracked down Maribeth Clancy in the Watchers online databank. She was old and smart--and had taken plenty of Quickenings.

He knew she would track Jim down if he didn't keep the rendezvous. If he did keep the rendezvous, he was a dead man--permanently. Ergo, Blair needed to get Jim out of town, fast.

Specifically, he had to find him a teacher, a friendly Immortal to initiate him into the Game. According to the Chronicles, there were a few. He looked up one more name, then closed down his laptop.

Jim was drinking a beer, holding up the wall, watching him. Brilliant blue eyes pinned Sandburg. "Well, Chief? What game am I not in?"

Blair took a deep breath. "Okay, that woman, she's--well, wait, um, okay, there's something I have to tell you."

Ellison's eyes narrowed, his patience visibly slipping away.

"Okay, look, you're not gonna believe me, so just try to suspend your disbelief until I can-- Oh, wait, I know." He stopped talking and pulled out his pocket knife. "Give me your arm."

Jim looked at him doubtfully, eyebrows raised.

Exasperated, Blair said vehemently, "Come on, man, we don't have time--"

Jim's expression changed from doubtful to glare.

 _Okay, stop. Breathe._ In his best Guide voice, slow and smooth, he continued, "Jim, I'm your Guide. You know I won't hurt you. There are things you don't know, stuff I'm going to tell you now. I need you to believe me. You're a detective; I know you need proof, evidence. Well, I'm going to show you evidence, if you let me. I won't damage anything permanently, I promise. I just need to scratch the skin."

Jim unquestioningly held out his left arm. Blair unbuttoned the cuff and pushed up the sleeve. He hesitated. There would be no going back, after this.

"Uh, Chief, alcohol? Infection?"

Blair shook his head. "Don't worry about it." He took one more deep breath, let it out slowly, and drew the knife down Jim's arm, leaving a narrow red line through which drops of blood welled up.

Jim simply stared. Then, as they both watched, small blue lightning danced across the torn skin. A moment later, the blood remained, but the cut was healed, the skin whole.

Sandburg hurried to get a towel to blot the blood. Ellison snatched it from his hand, roughly wiping his arm, and demanded, "All right, Sandburg, what. Was. THAT?!”

"Umm, see, Jim, you're an Immortal. You can't be-- Well, you can be killed, but then you resuscitate. Bullets won't stop you--well, you'll _stop_ , but then come back to life, okay? As long as you're not beheaded, that's the thing. And, well, like Sentinels have Guides, so Immortals have Watchers." _Okay, **not**  like, not remotely the same_. His heart was already going double-time; maybe Jim wouldn't notice the difference.

“The important thing is," he forced a deep breath under that icy gaze, "the important thing is, Immortals have this thing about killing each other. They call it ‘The Game’. _'In the end, there can be only one.'_ If you're on holy ground, like a church--or anybody's holy ground, actually--you're safe. Home-free. But otherwise, any of them can challenge you. They fight with swords, mostly--and if you're beheaded, that's it, you're dead, really dead. Kaput."

Jim considered this. The whole thing was crazy, but the beheaded-equaled-dead part seemed logical. "I get the idea, Sandburg."

Blair desperately went on. "Yeah, but, see, when you behead someone, you get their Quickening. Their previous life experiences--all of them--and the lives of all the Immortals that they've killed. There's a lot of power there, man.'

Ellison thought about it. "So the oldest ones, who I assume are the most experienced and the best fighters, gather more and more power."

"Exactly! Power accrues. And you ... don't have much."

Jim sighed. As Simon would said, this was way more information than he wanted to know. He pushed himself away from the wall.

"What makes me an Immortal? Is it a Sentinel thing?"

"No, this is different. I don't know why; no one does." That was a slip. He went on quickly, "Anyway, it's not a Sentinel thing. The thing is ... you already died once. When your plane went down in Peru, you all died. But you came back to life. That's probably what brought your senses back on line, too. Now your body can heal itself--as long as you keep your head."

"And you ... when you died in the fountain?" Immortality wouldn't be so bad, if they were together.

Blair shook his head sadly. "Nah. I don't know how you brought me back, but I'm not an Immortal. If you prick me, believe me, I'll bleed. And no blue lightning."

"Okay, Chief, say I buy any of this. What I am supposed to do--take fencing lessons while I hide in a church?"

Blair breathed a sigh of relief. Jim was taking him seriously. He grinned and relaxed.

"Hey, that's a good idea!" _Glower_. He hastily swallowed the grin. "Okay, some of them are really nasty, but there are some friendly Immortals, who take newbies under their wing, teach them the rules. There's one guy who lives in Seacouver. He actually has a dojo there. He's been known to train new Immortals without taking their heads off." Fatally, Blair babbled on, "I've never met him myself, but he has very good reports."

The penny dropped. He could hear it fall, in the moment before Jim said, "Reports? What reports--whose? Sandburg, how long have you known about this, and why--why didn't you tell me? Until just now?"

He didn't sound angry; he sounded confused. And hurt. Oh, yes. Blair bit his lip and turned away, staring out the window. Clouds were moving in, and the wind was changing.

Pleading to the window, "Jim, I swore never to tell you--or any Immortal--certain things I was told. I wanted to tell you--I mean, this is fascinatinq stuff. But I'm not lying or obfuscating now. What I just told you is true. Ah ... so there are mortals who know about the Immortals. They watch them, not interfering, just keeping track. It's not meant to harm."

"It's not meant to help. You ... didn't help. Me." A statement of fact, delivered in a flat voice that could not mask the pain.

His Guide--his Watcher--looked out at the city, desperate not to see Jim's reflection in the glass. His Sentinel--his Immortal. His friend-that-was.

"This guy in Seacouver--what's his name?" Ellison was a statue. Only the sound waves moved before him.

Blair turned eagerly, to help, to be forgiven. "Oh! Duncan Macleod. I can call-"

"Don't bother, Sandburg. Duncan Macleod, dojo, Seacouver. I got it." He picked up his jacket and opened the door. "You can ... stay here. I don't think I'll need it anymore." He gestured at the loft, pulling off the truck key and dropping his key-ring in the basket. He stopped at the door and said softly, almost under his breath, "I thought you got it, Chief. About friendship. About love." Then he was gone.

Blair stood, his mouth open, a thousand things he wanted to say, needed to say, evaporating in air. He turned back to the window in time to see the truck move away down the street. Outside, the first cold raindrops struck the balcony windows. The streetlights gleamed like misty juggling balls, suspended in mid-air, until they melted, spilled over and flowed down his face.

 

END


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